


Armistice

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Series: Ice Cream Sunday [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Armistice, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), WW1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:35:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: Crowley is woken by the striking of Big Ben, by a clamour of church bells, by the thundering report of the maroons.  The rockets had been used to warn Londoners of Zeppelin raids, but today they spread the news of Armistice.  The war, at last, is over.





	Armistice

**Author's Note:**

> This is the story behind a scene in my fic, Ice Cream Sunday. So more a missing scene than a sequel. There is no need to have read part one for this to make sense.

Crowley is woken by the striking of Big Ben, by a clamour of church bells, by the thundering report of the maroons. The rockets had been used to warn Londoners of Zeppelin raids, but today they spread the news of Armistice. The war, at last, is over. 

He flings back bedsheets and goes to the window. People are pouring out on to the street and running across the bridges toward Parliament. Little boys blow ‘all clear’ on their bugles or shout the news in piping voices. It is as if a spell has been broken. As if they, like him, have slept these four years through. 

Every few weeks, he had paused the business of oblivion to sniff the air. He would know it wasn’t over from the Hell-stench seeping up, of rotting flesh, of cordite and chlorine, of sulphite and smoke. Then he would fall back, letting the replenishing bottle of Black & White do its work. 

Today is different. Today there is weary relief, today there is delight and jubilation. Today there is peace in the air. 

Something else has changed. Aziraphale is back. Crowley knows it as surely as he knows the difference between night and day. After four years he has returned to the city. 

Within seconds Crowley is sober, washed, dressed in a snappy pinstripe and on his way to Soho, bottle of cognac in hand. 

There is no choice but to walk. The roads are jammed with people, arm in arm, yelling and singing, commandeering every kind of vehicle for a parade float, some madly waving Union Jack flags. He clears his path of humans with urging thoughts. It is Aziraphale he needs, but that is a story exactly as old as time. 

*~* 

The shop sign is flipped to closed, as it has been since 1914, but this door has never been locked to him. 

“Aziraphale?!” He calls as he heads to the back shop. 

He finds him in the straight-backed armchair beside his desk. 

“Dear fellow,” the angel says. 

Crowley hangs his hat on a hook and perches on the arm of the sofa which has borne his weight since the eighteenth century. 

“Where have you been?” He asks. 

“Oh, around. France mostly.” 

“Really? You do pick your moments to go to France. Wait, you weren’t -” 

“And yourself? Were your side involved in the conflict?” 

“I swear, it was nothing to do with me.” 

Aziraphale pauses, settling an argument with himself, “No, it didn’t seem to be your style.” 

He takes the judgement as a blessing. 

“So, were you – in the war?” Crowley asks. 

“Doing what I could.” 

He doesn’t elaborate and Crowley takes him in during the silence that follows. He seems just to be sitting; holding no book or cup, listening to no music. There is a wrongness to his appearance too. He wears his usual suit but there is a long, dark stain on the arm of a jacket Crowley has only ever seen pristine white. And the worst of it, the absolute worst of it; he has lost weight. His jacket engulfs him, the trousers are belted to an extra notch. He hasn’t been this skinny since the day he discovered mangoes growing in Eden. 

“Do you – do you want to go for a drink? It’s getting pretty lively out there, but we could find -.” He remembers he has come prepared and holds up the bottle. “Or I’ve brought brandy. It’s the good stuff.” 

Aziraphale gives him a questioning look as if, momentarily, he doesn’t quite understand what is being asked of him. 

“I have an appointment,” he says, glancing Heavenward. 

“I can wait for you.” 

“Perhaps another time.” 

“Another time, yeah, all right. Aziraphale, you’re not planning on going upstairs looking like that?” 

Aziraphale follows his gaze to his arm. 

“Isn’t it ridiculous. The war was over, I could put my own clothes on again. I’d been looking forward to it. Then this happened on the boat over.” 

“What do you mean? Why haven’t you been wearing your own clothes. They didn’t make you join an army, did they?” 

“I wasn’t _made_ to do anything. I worked with the medical corps.” 

“For the whole of the war?” 

“I spent some time in the _feldlazarette_ too, on the other side. Got into a bit of trouble for that.” 

“I imagine you did.” 

He consults his pocket watch, “I had better go. I mustn’t keep Gabriel waiting.” 

“A commendation?” 

Aziraphale smiles, “Reprimand, I’m afraid. Too many miracles.” 

“That again. What kind of miracles?” 

“Sometimes human medicine doesn’t touch the pain. Just a word and they didn’t feel anything.” 

“And that was bad because -?” 

“Because I had been told not to. But they were just children, Crowley. Frightened children.” 

“I know, I know, they’re all just children.” 

Outside, a firework ignites and he sees the angel startle. Crowley decides he is going to get drunk again. 

“Come here,” he sighs. “No need to give the archangels more ammunition.” 

He stands Aziraphale up and disappears the stain with a breath. When no objection is raised, he waves a hand to adjust the fitting of the suit, clean and press it. Aziraphale prefers to look after his clothes the human way but he submits without complaint. Crowley is not used to an uncomplaining Aziraphale. He pushes his luck by ridding him of the grime of travel and returning the spring to his poor curls but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. 

It is during this process that Crowley’s hand accidently brushes against Aziraphale’s and he sees it all. 

Torn, burnt and bloody bodies, fever and disease. He hears the screams, the endless crying, feels the terror of those facing death. He sees it all through Aziraphale’s eyes. Sees his hand reaching out, easing pain, soothing fear. He sees that it was unremitting for four years. He never once left his post; there was no one there to make him. Despite rumours circulating among the humans, there was no other angel anywhere near, and worse, no demon with well-known powers of persuasion bearing alcohol. 

He walks with Aziraphale to a nearby portal, ensuring he moves untouched by the humanity crowding around him, and then turns for home. 

He surges into the celebrations at Trafalgar Square, diving into the sea of brimming joy. There are thousands of people here, oblivious to the cold and drizzle. They are swaying together, singing, _Keep the Home Fires Burning_, _It’s a long way to Tipperary_, _Amazing Grace_. Naturally, he doesn’t cry with them. 

*~* 

His flat when he gets there is not the same as when he left it. Hell has made a delivery. 

The word chair doesn’t do it justice. It is a throne. A gold throne, upholstered in red leather. It is decorated with crests, carvings and curly flourishes. Devilish faces leer out and sigils and symbols spark with infernal power. 

His desk, which for centuries has been unembellished solid oak, shivers into gold and blood-red marble in sympathy. 

On the desk is a black-trimmed scroll. A commendation. A commendation for the war. Because Hell clings to the delusion humans couldn’t possibly manufacture a slaughter so horrendous without help. 

He snaps his fingers and the throne and table are covered in a black cloth. A moment later they are not. 

“Oi.” 

He tries to tuck the chair into a different dimension. It won’t go. 

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” he says and goes to bed. 

*~* 

Monday’s clouds and drizzle have blown out to sea by Tuesday afternoon and it is a bright, autumnal day. There are people still promenading on the streets and squares. Their prime minister has told them they are entitled to rejoice, their king has driven through the city to cheering crowds. Crowley can feel a sparking sizzle of expectation in the air. The city is a simmering pot ready to boil. 

When he reaches Soho, he finds Aziraphale in the same chair, in the same dazed contemplation of the space in front of him. 

“Crowley, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” 

“How did it go?” 

“Oh. Not too bad. No miracles or blessings for a year without prior permission.” 

“Forget about it. I can do your miracles for you.” 

His attempt at gallantry earns him an anxious look. 

“Aziraphale, let’s just go out.” 

“Where?” 

“Anywhere. It’s sunny, let’s go and feed the ducks.” 

“I don’t think so. I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.” 

“Are you? Because -” 

“I’m preferring the peace and quiet to the alternative.” 

“Right.” 

“You must stay, of course,” he says. “Forgive my manners.” 

“Good plan. No humans here. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Three doors down, there is a French restaurant. A favourite of Aziraphale’s, if all the wittering he has put up with over the years about _flambé_, _sauté_ and _fricassée_ is anything to go by. When Crowley arrives, the kitchen find they do, in fact, have some just ripe pears and the maître d agrees that, yes, _Poire belle Helene_ is on today’s menu. It is pears poached in sugar syrup, served with vanilla ice cream and liquid chocolate. A combination known to send the angel into divine ecstasy. He takes a serving back to the bookshop under a silver domed lid. 

When Crowley removes the lid, Aziraphale breathes in the scent and bursts into tears. At Crowley’s frozen horror, he pulls out a handkerchief and mops himself up. 

“My apologies, oh dear me.” 

Crowley cuts a slice of pear with a spoon. It comes away like butter. He scoops it up with ice cream and the various sauces. 

“Taste,” he orders. 

Aziraphale takes the spoon from him and obeys. He closes his eyes and for a moment looks content. Then he gives up. 

“You finish it. It’s a bit rich for me at present. I think I might have a touch of seasickness from the boat.” 

Crowley puts the dish aside. It never occurred to him pears could fail. 

“You don’t get seasick; you were on the actual Ark comforting queasy goats.” 

Aziraphale gives him a confused look, as if to ask why he is arguing. As if arguments had not been the basis of their conversation since forever. 

The Cognac he brought yesterday is still on Aziraphale’s desk. He collects two glasses and pours them each a generous measure. Aziraphale drinks with grim determination, at a pace impressive even by their standards. Crowley’s attempts at conversations, questions, even disputes are met with nothing but a word or a vague acknowledgement. Eventually he realises all that is required of him is to keep Aziraphale company, to match him glass for glass until the bottle is empty, and so he does. 

Later, when Crowley makes his unsteady way from the kitchenette with a bottle of something he intends to convert to cognac, he finds Aziraphale with a hand over his face, stifling sobs. He skids to his knees at his feet. 

“No, no, no, angel. Don’t cry. You’ve been so brave, so good, so kind, please don’t cry.” 

He grabs Aziraphale’s other hand and presses his forehead to it. They stay this way for minutes, neither breathing. 

When Crowley sits back on his heels, he sees Aziraphale with a hand over his mouth, his eyes firmly closed. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t know why I’m like this.” 

“I do. You’re exhausted. Look, come on. You need to rest.” 

Alcohol emboldens him. He stands Aziraphale up to shuffle him out of his jacket and, after a couple of goes, spring loose his bowtie. The fight has gone out of him and he doesn’t even fuss, he doesn’t make a sound. Just peers at Crowley with startled eyes. He pushes him down onto the sofa and removes his shoes. Then makes him lie down. 

“I don’t see why you don’t have a bed. You big, stubborn idiot. That’s a human body you’re living in, it needs looking after. And there’s such a thing as spiritual exhaustion.” 

He reaches into the air for a blanket and tucks it around Aziraphale. 

“All right?” He says. 

“You’ve lost your mind,” Aziraphale mutters but he has no strength to really object. 

“Go to sleep, now. Don’t wake up for eight, no ten hours, understand?” 

He taps Aziraphale’s forehead and he drops into a deep sleep. He sobers him up, plants some dreams, of Bukhara and Samarkand, and leaves him be. 

*~* 

The crowds have returned with the evening, congregating on Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. The squares can’t contain them and they have spread throughout Westminster and the West End. 

Crowley pushes through toward home. The humans get in his way tonight, damn them to Heaven. Trench feet and trench hearts, he’s too drunk to shift them. 

They have built a huge bonfire on the steps of Nelson’s column and are burning the Kaiser in effigy. A captured German gun, dragged from Pall Mall is thrown on too. The air is thick with smoke. He alters the direction of the breeze so it will not reach Soho. 

Yesterday the Prime Minister had stood up in the House of Commons and expressed his hope that _this fateful morning, came to an end all wars_. Crowley has no such hope. He knows without doubt, this is nothing more than a cease fire. The gun factories will be back at work tomorrow morning, using the pause to fill the shelves of their empty warehouses. The boy babies conceived on Armistice night will be grown in time for the next conscription. Grudges polished up, alliances formed, new battle lines drawn and they will be ready to go again. 

The peace is barely a day old but it feels like it did in Sarajevo in 1914. They taste the same on his demon tongue. This is not the end; it hasn’t got started yet. 

*~* 

When he gets home, he finds the flat has changed all his chairs to ornate gold. 

And won’t change them back no matter how much finger-snapping he does. 

He shouts into the air, “Who’s in charge, you bastard?” 

He sobers up and tries again, but this doesn’t work either. 

It’s his own fault for making such a lazy miracle. 

The flat, which isn’t a flat but a cupboard containing a pocket in time and space, is supposed to arrange its geography, décor and contents according to his needs and desires. And if it has decided he needs and desires furniture that wouldn’t be out of place in Nero’s boudoir it is hard not to feel insulted. 

It is, of course, a reaction to the arrival of the blasted throne. The flat is good at picking up on new developments. But if it knows him, if it _is_ him, why does it not know he hates this cheap show of demonic power? Perhaps some small part of him believes he needs to buck his ideas up. If Hell thinks he should be out starting horrific wars, how is he going to avoid incurring its wrath when he patently doesn’t? 

Obeying the odd scroll-delivered order and boasting about bespoke irritations he has crafted isn’t going to get him far when Duke Hastur starts asking questions. The alleged ripple effect of the Chancellor of the Exchequer losing his reading glasses is not going to cut much ice in that quarter. 

He goes to the window as a truck full of shouting youngsters comes hurtling by dragging the side of some poor sod’s shed behind it. More fuel for the bonfire he presumes. Nothing wrong with that. He is all in favour of chaos and mayhem. It is when they get on to the dismembering that they lose him. But it is just as well the humans are so proactively vile to each other. He has been hiding behind their atrocities for centuries. 

He gathers up the things that had been cast to the floor now his desk is too fancy to have a useful bottom drawer. They are some of his few material objects. Some souvenirs from his long life. A red Jasper stone Aziraphale brought out of Eden. Crowley had worn it around his neck for centuries. An oyster shell from Rome, a handful of brooches and coins, an enamel box he can’t bring himself to open. He has a book borrowed from AZ Fell and a piece of chainstitch he’s had going for a few decades. Why can’t he have a decent chair to sit in to read or sew on a rainy afternoon? 

“Couldn’t you get a horse up the stairs?” He demands of his flat. “Is this the most uncomfortable seating arrangement you could come up with?” 

He can’t help but laugh when a unicycle appears. He snaps it away in case that becomes a permanent fixture too. 

“And where am I supposed to put my stuff?” 

A gold, jewel encrusted treasure chest lands with a thump forcing him to leap out of its way. 

“Well done that flat. You fucking win.” 

Dear Satan, there’s no hiding his profession now. This place would definitely qualify as a lair. 

“Maybe I’ll get a cheese plant to balance the _lairishness_.” 

He dumps everything into the chest with a sigh. Sometimes he feels every one of the six thousand years he has spent in this ridiculous body. Sometimes all the bloody effort is too damned much. The effort it takes to just keep going, to chase down temptations, to please the perpetually displeased. Even hopeless devotion to his dear angel is sometimes exhausting. 

He is relieved to find he still has a bedroom and that the bed has escaped transformation. He falls into it, reaching for the Black & White. He’ll try again for some reasonable furniture when his mood improves, assuming it ever does. 

*~* 

When Crowley leaves for Soho on Wednesday evening, the daytime lull that followed the unruly night is coming to an end. The extended party shows no sign of finishing and crowds are already starting to gather for another night of celebration; clustering in small groups, passing bottles and cigarettes from hand to hand. 

Aziraphale is in the front part of the shop when he arrives. He is gazing at a shelf of books, running a finger along their spines. For all Crowley knows, he is having a quiet word with them. He glances at him and then away. 

“Three days,” he says. “You must be up to something.” 

“You know me.” 

He is not sure if he’s in trouble. Half the time, Crowley doesn’t know if something he has done is going to cause Aziraphale to start twinkling happily, make him tut disapprovingly or see him casting around for his flaming sword. 

“About yesterday –,” he tries. 

“Rather too much to drink.” 

And that seems all he intends to say on the matter. He looks better, though. He definitely looks better. 

“Are you ready to go out yet?” Crowley asks. 

“Well, I –.” 

“I’ve got tickets.” 

“Tickets for what? This isn’t one of your music hall varieties, is it? Because I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for another tattooed lady.” 

“Violin recital at the Bechstein. Mozart, Grieg, Bach.” 

“Oh? Oh, I see. Who?” 

“Marjorie Hayward.” 

“Dear Marj.” 

“Never mind dear Marj, we need to go if we’re going.” 

He takes Aziraphale’s coat from the hook and holds it out meaningfully. Eventually he lets Crowley help him into it. He accepts his hat from him too and puts that on. He has lost all his padding; Crowley wants to wrap him from head to foot in cashmere. He resists. Mostly. He hands him an ivory coloured scarf which hadn’t previously existed. Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

He shrugs, “Its cold.” 

Aziraphale thanks him carefully and puts it on. 

“I’ve missed the smell of Soho, isn’t it odd?” Aziraphale says as they walk. “Not just the bakeries and interesting cuisines, but all the people living so closely together, even the industry.” 

“All I can smell is the pickle factory. Makes my eyes water.” 

“I don’t say its pleasant, but it is home.” 

Crowley turns to him, “Is London home? What about Heaven?” 

“Well, naturally. Although. Although when I was away, it was here I thought of, here I longed to be. You’ve lived in this city as long as I. You must like it too.” 

“Good hunting, is all,” he says, the lie coming easily. He would follow Aziraphale anywhere that didn’t involve talking his way past Saint Peter. 

“Ah, yes,” says Aziraphale. “It certainly provides a lot of scope for temptations.” 

On Oxford Street, department stores have hung banners up proclaiming Victory and Peace. Flags have bloomed from windows, from motor cars, from flower beds. War veterans in uniform sit on benches and watch the passing traffic. Some with missing limbs or burn-scarred faces beg for alms. 

The war has seeped in everywhere. It has transformed the Bechstein into the less Teutonic, Wigmore Hall. Even the concert begins with prayers for the fallen and thanks for victory. As if God had marched at the head of the army. As if She ever gave a fig. 

The music of a violin has always given Crowley’s heart a bashing, right from when he first heard the Spanish street musicians back in the seventeenth century. Today, as he watches the soloist in her Edwardian frock, her whole body in motion as her bow flies across the strings, her fingers dancing along the frets, he wonders at a species that can produce both Mozart and the Western Front. If they can do _this_, how could they ever do _that_? It is not the first time he has asked this question. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes when the music starts and doesn’t draw breath until the interval. A glass of sherry and he does the same during the second half. Angels and demons have the imaginations of shellfish, no wonder they are out of their depth with humans. He suspects, of all their kind, Aziraphale has the keenest understanding of the tangle and muddle of the human soul. He looks straight at it, he plunges his hand right in when he needs to, leaves a blessing and departs. 

Crowley should have gone to this war, he bloody knows it. He should have stood beside Aziraphale and borne witness. He should have _helped_. 

When the concert is finished, Aziraphale enthuses quietly about the performance while Crowley steers him to a nearby Italian restaurant. Before he has a chance to object, they are seated with a view of the street. Crowley orders champagne and _Sfogliatella Santa Rosa_ filled with fresh ricotta. Aziraphale claims a hand in the invention of this sweet in a Campania monastery three centuries ago and Crowley has no reason to doubt him. 

“Oh, this is very kind of you,” Aziraphale says. 

“I’m not kind,” he says mildly. “I’m up to something.” 

Aziraphale takes a bite of the fragile, flaky pastry, “That’s quite delicious,” he says and, to Crowley’s dismay, doesn’t touch it again. 

A child, a small girl of no more than two years, wide eyed and pointing, stares at them from her place on her mother’s lap. It is not an uncommon occurrence; toddlers sometimes catch a glimpse of wings. 

The door is flung open and a crowd of uniformed officers pile in. They are not rowdy but there are a lot of them and they are in high spirits. A waiter bringing hot coffee is jostled and the pot tips off its tray. Lightning fast, Crowley stills Aziraphale’s hand and uses his own powers to divert the pot to the floor before the child is scalded. 

Aziraphale turns to Crowley, “Thank you.” 

“You’d better watch your step, angel,” he says. “Or you’re going to get yourself recalled.” 

“I see that. Oh dear, it’s not going to be an easy year.” 

“I meant what I said, I can do your unapproved miracles. It’s no skin off my nose. Hell doesn’t check and I’m in favour at the moment; I’ve got a pig-ugly chair to prove it.” 

“You have a what?” 

“Oh, nothing. They sent me a throne as a bonus, because they think the war was mine. Then the rest of the furniture changed to go with it. It’s all a bit of a Louis XIV nightmare, at the moment. I’m afraid to go home in case there’s chandeliers.” 

“I enjoyed your home when I visited on the night of the Great Fire. I found the simple dark wood and beautiful art - healing.” 

“Did you?” If he still had a bottom drawer, he’d keep that for a souvenir. “I’m going to get rid of it all as soon as I can.” 

“Crowley, you mustn’t.” He blinks at the urgency in Aziraphale’s voice, at a hand gripping his arm and, as quickly, withdrawing. “You must keep yourself safe. Do you understand? What if Hell paid a visit and found its gift unappreciated?” 

“I – I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll be careful.” 

“Do, please.” 

So that’s what the flat has been up to; saving his useless arse. 

“But what we were talking about. I can help.” 

“Your offer is a generous one, but not practical. Well beyond the scope of the Arrangement.” 

“I don’t see why.” 

“One doesn’t plan these things. Which is Heaven’s particular complaint, incidentally. And you’re not always around.” 

“I could be.” Oh, he is ridiculous. 

“Be serious, Crowley. It’s out of the question.” 

“You’re right,” he says and downs his champagne. “Out of the question.” 

Crowley stares into the street, aware of Aziraphale’s blue gaze attempting to fathom him. Six millennia and neither of them have a clue about the other, not the first idea. 

The celebrations are drawing multiplying crowds to the West End. There is more drinking now, more roaming boys. He should be out there, stirring things up. _Fomenting_. He can sniff a riot in the air. It wouldn’t take much. Everyone here has lost someone, or lost themselves, or seen things they shouldn’t have. This joy is not a pure stream; it is polluted with decaying corpses. A few whispers in a few susceptible ears and the windows would start smashing. He could put this city on a war footing if he wanted, he could bring down the government in a night, he could smash the whole damned establishment to bits. 

*~* 

He doesn’t start a revolution. It’s not his style. He gets drunk and stumbles into a few fights. Waste of time scuffles, not even worth claiming credit for on his half-century returns. 

At home, he tries to get comfortable on his throne. He might as well sit on a pile of rocks and have done with it. He doesn’t bother to sober up, just lets himself pass out. When he wakes with his head on the table, it is already afternoon. 

He would have been too embarrassed to bother Aziraphale again but a letter arrives. It is unsigned, as is their practice. Aziraphale proposes a meeting.

*~*

Despite the cold, men in uniform occupy the benches in St James’ park. There to kill time, he supposes, and smooth away the jagged edges of a memory or two. Compared to the ravaged landscapes they have come from, the beauty and order of the park with its pretty lake and autumn display must seem like Heaven. In Crowley’s opinion, it is an improvement. 

Aziraphale is waiting, and Crowley joins him on the bench he has secured. Among his layers of winter clothes, he is wearing the cashmere scarf Crowley created for him. 

“I have an assignment,” Aziraphale tells him. “I didn’t want to disappear again without telling you…briefing you.” 

“So soon? Where are you off to?” 

“Egypt. St Anthony’s Monastery. I’m to ease the passing of the elderly abbot and perform the odd miracle. Heaven are keen for him to be canonised in future years.” 

“St Anthony’s? Isn’t that the one up a mountain in the middle of the desert?” 

“Regrettably.” 

“It’ll take weeks to get there. And that’s donkeys and camels. Worse than bloody horses. It’s part of your punishment.” 

Aziraphale hesitates; he hadn’t considered this. Millenia of spite and he still doesn’t see it. 

“Nonsense,” he says. “It’s completely routine.” 

“I’ll go. I’ll do this one.” 

“It’s a monastery, you’ll explode. And anyway, I’m perfectly capable of completing the task.” 

“Did I say you weren’t?” 

“What _is_ the matter, Crowley? You’ve been acting very strangely.” 

“_I’ve_ been – me?” 

“It’s as though you’re speaking to me in a code I can’t decipher.” 

His power of speech vanishes entirely at that, but Aziraphale ploughs on. 

“And since when have you cared about pastries and puddings?” 

He feels himself colour, “You’re too bloody skinny, that’s all.” 

“That’s rich coming from you, I’ve seen broom handles with more meat on them.” 

“I just – I just think you should eat something.” 

“Why on earth? I don’t need to eat any more than you do.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“I assure you –” 

“If you’re eating, I know you’re all right. They haven’t broken you. Heaven, humans. The universe full of utter, utter bastards.” 

Aziraphale stares at him. 

“I’m not broken, dear fellow,” he says at last. “Not even cracked.” 

“I’m glad to hear it, angel,” he says softly. “Truly.” 

“It wasn’t so terrible. In France. If that’s what’s concerning you. At least there was a medical corp. Think of all the wars and plagues and famines you and I have seen where people just died where they fell. No, this wasn’t so bad.” 

“It was, I saw it, you showed me.” 

“I didn’t mean to.” 

“It was industrial slaughter and that’s new. I should have been there.” 

“Demonic intervention would have been entirely superfluous.” 

“Not – no, Aziraphale – I don’t mean -.” He swipes off his hat and his hand goes helplessly through his hair. “Never mind. You’re right, I would have been entirely superfluous.” 

Aziraphale gazes at him in solemn bafflement. 

“I don’t understand what you’re struggling with,” he says in the voice he must have used a lot with the shell-shocked. “But you have been ki- “ 

“Don’t.” 

“Quite, quite. And I have appreciated it. It’s been good to be reminded of pleasant things. To see something other than human suffering when I close my eyes. Those were – those were lovely dreams you gave me.” 

He consults his pocket watch, “Now, I really must dash or I shall miss the night train.” He puts a hand out for Crowley to shake, “Goodbye for now.” 

As he walks away, Crowley spends a few pleasurable moments imagining knocking archangels’ halos off with a well-aimed missile or two. A journey of that distance and difficulty without being able to miracle a bar open or a hotel room vacant. Gabriel knows what he’s doing. The tin-hearted bastard. 

Aziraphale knows it too. Deep down, of course he does. But Aziraphale is afraid. And he should be. Because where does rebelling get you? Where do questions get you? Where could _fraternising_ with a demon get you? He is afraid himself. Just look at his flat. He is bowing and scraping to Hell without even knowing it. Because the consequences of defiance are unthinkable. 

Should they then abandon each other and have done with it? Should he flee to another city every time night turns to day and the angel returns? 

An old woman rumbles by with a handcart. On it, a pan of chestnuts roasts over a brazier of burning charcoal. It fills the air with a sweet, smoky aroma. As ever, he classifies food in relation to Aziraphale’s estimation of it. 

A couple of minutes later, purchase made, he is walking beside Aziraphale. 

“I haven’t been to Egypt in years,” Crowley says. 

“I’ve already said -” 

“I’ll come as far as the mountain. Because you make a good point, I don’t want to ruin some old monk’s death by catching fire in his bedroom.” 

“You must be mad.” 

Crowley waves a paper cone at him, “Nut?” 

“You’re a nut.” 

But Aziraphale leaves off staring at him and takes a chestnut. He carefully peels the shell from the star-hot flesh. 

“I was venerated in Egypt, you know,” Crowley says. 

“So were dung beetles.” 

“The serpent goddess, Wadjet, symbol of divine authority. That was me. Look.” 

He morphs into Wadjet, lovely rearing cobra on her head. She arranges her arms in a vaguely ancient Egyptian manner for good measure. 

“Crowley, put her away this instant. There are humans!” 

“What, why? I’m due a manifestation.” 

But he is soon Crowley-shaped again. 

“There you are,” Aziraphale says. “There you are. That’s much better.” 

End

October 2019


End file.
